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Who Knows Why? |
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How often have I asked myself
why it is that I'm
still here?
Why did that damned bullet just
barely
graze my ear?
Old Moby, who was behind me,
probably thinking of his farm,
gave a grunt and slumped
right
over, grabbing out for my arm.
His eyes were
wide and puzzled
as he lay there on the ground.
Then
they just sort of went out;
he was gone without a sound.
I found myself down beside him
clutching him in that
muddy hole,
though the sniper didn't fire again;
he
was satisfied with one soul.
But in my heart was a
dagger
he had buried clear to the hilt;
and for all
the days that remain
to me I'll carry a nagging guilt.
I know full well that it's not my
fault, but I'll
remember to the end
how that bullet whipped right past
my head to wind up in my friend.
All the words of
reason they tell me
Will never take away my pain,
nor
all the wishes in the world
bring Moby back again.
So I'm left to grieve and wonder
why it came to be
that night
that Moby's eyes and not mine
dimmed and
lost their light.
It wasn't because I was smarter
a lot braver or more bold;
I ain't built no great empires
or saved a thousand souls.
The only reason I can
think of
why it's him and not me that's dead,
is
because, at just the right second,
I simply turned my
head. |
By
Thurman P. Woodfork
Copyright 2006
Listed
March 25, 2011 |
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